Sherlock Holmes and The Austro-French Predicament
by Consulting-Comedian
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, now a wanted man, flees to Vienna in search of more clients and cases to drive away the endless boredom. But where ever a great detective goes, great criminals.
1. Chapter 1

It was clear to me now that a murder was perhaps the most interesting thing I could get my hands on in the world of journalism. It was far better than the mundane who's-sleeping-with-who articles I often found I was left with.  
I soon felt a sense of excitement on my floor whenever there was a murder to write about. I was thrilled to hear that I would be allowed to attend a conference on the murder, asking the Detective Inspector questions for our paper, The Austrian Times (being an English language newspaper, I was one of the few Austrian journalists there, though my English was beginning to improve considerably). I was overjoyed at the prospect of being able to write about the murder and, to be frank, had been waiting for the opportunity for a long while now.

I waited outside the conference room with anticipation and baited breath. I had never dealt with anything of this importance before. This caused me to be nervous, but nonetheless still excited. I was seated next to a tall, thin man when the conference finally got underway.  
"Hello, all of you, and welcome," the Sargent began, "We will start of by briefing you quickly on the case and then finish with a Q & A with Detective Inspector Bieler."  
There was a wave of nodding heads as the Sargent handed over to the DI. "The victim was 46 years of age," DI Bieler spoke with a thick Swiss accent, "his name was Augustin Bauge and he was a successful restaurant owner in France; he moved to Vienna a few weeks after retirement, leaving the chain to his son. He was last seen by security cameras making his way into his apartment. He sent several emails to a friend in Budapest, who we have not yet been able to get in contact with. After he sent these emails, we can not be certain of what his exact actions were, but he was found early the next morning by the maid who claimed she had to climb through the window to get inside." I felt the man next to me lean close to my ear. "In the previous week," he whispered, "a French businesses, also with the name of Augustin Bauge, was murdered in the same way the second Mr Bauge was."  
I looked at the man curiously. "How do you know the way in which he was murdered?"  
"The name's Mycroft Holmes," he told me, failing to answer my question, "You must be miss Ludzuweit."  
I blinked at Holmes. "Well yes, I am but-"  
He silenced me by holding up my ID between his two fingers.  
"You should be more careful about where you leave it."  
I scowled at the Holmes man, not sure whether to be astonished or outraged by his theft of my ID. "You never answered my question, Mr Holmes, how did you know the way in which Mr Bauge was murdered?"  
A snide smile grew over Holmes' thin face. "I know a man who knows a man."  
I sat in silence for a moment, contemplating every factor about the Holmes man. "What makes you so sure these two murders are connected?"  
Holmes let out a short laugh. "You must be joking, you think I'd trust a journalist? Never trust a journalist, worming little things," he began to trail off, "working their way inside of you, eating you from the inside out."  
It was somehow pleasing, the way he talked. It was pleasing to listen to, but the words he spoke were foul and bitter. Bitter words of a man who had experienced the hatred of the people first hand; this made me interested in the man of Mycroft Holmes.  
He spoke again, bringing me out of my thoughts. "I must be off," Holmes announced, "I have something important to take care of." He stood and made his way past me but not before stopping to ask me, "by the way, Julia, I'll be popping round later, if that's alright with you."  
I had little time to object, so instead I nodded. Though I doubted that Mycroft would have paid attention to any qualms I had with his visit.

Of course Mycroft had absolutely no qualms with 'dropping by' after the conference. God knows how he got hold of my address, it was written no where on my ID but it was far past the point now for asking questions. Holmes made himself quickly at home, sitting himself down in the best-looking armchair in the living room. "Sorry," he then said, "This is your favourite chair, you can sit here if you like."  
I shook my head. "No, no, you're the guest, sit wherever you like." Mycroft gazed around at my apartment, tapping his foot against the floor, as if he were waiting for something to happen. "I used to live somewhere like this," he stated, "It was very like this, actually, nearly the same wallpaper, the name's Sherlock Holmes by the way."  
I stared at him. "I thought you said you were-"  
"Mycroft Homes, no, Mycroft is my brother," he threw Mycroft Holmes' ID across the coffee table to where I sat, "but I was sure he wouldn't mind if I..." he paused. "... Borrowed his name for a while. After all, he does owe me a favour but that's irrelevant, I'm your guest, you should make me tea. And biscuits, do you happen to have any biscuits?"

Sherlock Holmes was an ignorant man. A stubborn, most of the time horrible, ignorant man. He was the sort of man you would guess was constantly spoiling for a fight, but in reality that was just the way he was. I like to think that I am a reasonably polite person, in fact, I know that I am a terribly polite person. But, you see, the problem with Sherlock Holmes is that he brings either the best or worst out of people. I am currently still trying to work whether I should have brought him those biscuits, or punched him straight in the face.


	2. Chapter 2

I awoke that morning to the sound of the kettle boiling. Sherlock, I guessed, was up already.

I had begrudgingly let him stay the night, after he had told me he had no where else to stay. I had the right mind to leave him out on the streets after all the trouble he had caused me so far, but something told me he didn't mean to be such an annoying tart.

"Good morning," I greeted him, stifling a yawn, "eager to make tea, I see."

"Yes." Sherlock answered simply. "Usually John would make me some first thing, but seeing as he's not here currently I took it upon myself to make it, do you take sugar?"

I nodded, "who's John?"

"Just an old friend." As he looked at me, I was sure I could make out a ghost of a warm smile on his thin lips.

"Sugar, how many?" He asked.

"Two, thank you." I sat down in the armchair next to the window. I noticed that bags and boxes now blocked the door. How long was Sherlock planning to stay here? It looked as if he had practically moved in over night. "Sherlock," I begin to ask him, "where did all this stuff come from?"

Sherlock turned round, placing the tea on the coffee table and sitting down in sofa opposite me. "Oh, I liked the view so I..." He pondered what to say. "... moved in, so to speak."

I looked at him in horror. "Moved in? Without my permission? This isn't some hostel, you can't just drop by here whenever you-"

Sherlock nodded his head slowly at me. "Of course, Julia, I will leave this afternoon."

"Oh." I stared at him. "Well, I mean, you don't have to, that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean? If you don't mind me asking."

I scowled, angered by his calm state. "Fine, you can stay, but you have to make sure you can help pay the rent-"  
"Oh, money will not be a problem, I assure you! Now," he reached forward and picked up his tea, "on to this problematic little case we have here."

"Wait, wait," I scrunched up my face, "who... who are you, anyway? You just come in her and start announcing things about a serial killer, for all I know you could be the murderer!"

Sherlock let out a loud snort of laughter. "Don't fret; most people assume I'm the killer. No, my name is Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective."

"Consulting what?"

"Consulting Detective, the only one in the world, I invented the job."

"Invented the job? How did you invent a job?"

Sherlock took a sip from his tea. "That part was easy; I simply had to name myself so. But, like I keep trying to say, back to this case," He clicked his fingers, "you're bored aren't you? At least, that's the vibe I'm getting off you. So you're bored, I'm bored, we're all bored, it's all very boring. Then a case like this comes along to cure out boredom, how could you resist? Don't you want something to write about, miss Ludzuweit?"

I chuckled quietly, taking a sip of my own tea. "Oh yes, it's the thing I desire most."

"In that case, let's have some fun." He rose from his chair, clapping his hands impatiently. "Firstly, I'll need to borrow your phone."

"What? Why?"

"I need to make a phone call."

"Why can't you use your own?"

"No battery. I need to use yours."

I frowned at him, my temper beginning to rise. "How do you expect me to trust you, anyway? You keep telling me who you are, but I don't know anything about you, you don't know anything about me."

Sherlock turned his back to me, but I could see a smirk form. "Your name is Julia Ludzuweit, you are 34 years old, you've always wanted to be a detective but you couldn't manage with the pressure of that sort of job so you became a journalist instead, hoping to work your way up from there. So far though, you've barely gotten anywhere since then, you see yourself as a failure and you've been waiting for a chance like this to come along for a long while now however you think it's too good to be true, you don't trust me, you have every right in the world not to trust me, but that's completely and utterly your choice."

My eyes widened, looking at Sherlock. How was it possible that he had been able to work all those things out about me like that?

"How did you-"

"I would love to explain, I really would but currently I am in urgent need of the use of your phone."

I gave him a quick nod before handing him my mobile. How was it that this strange man made you trust him so much? And why was it that out of all the people in the world, I chose to trust Sherlock Holmes?


End file.
